What a tiny list of friends I have! All my fault. I less and less want to see people.
Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.
I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.
I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold
I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life.
Thinking of death--strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off--made me feel happier than ever.